Choked Up (29 page)

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Authors: Janey Mack

BOOK: Choked Up
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Chapter 42
I sat at the kitchen bar, drinking a sugar-free Amp. “Be careful today,” I cautioned Stannis, as he slid his Smith & Wesson .44 short into the waistband holster at his back.
He hesitated. “You worry? For me?”
“Of course I do.” I
twanged
the metal tab on the top of the can. “Eddie's a loose cannon. When his girlfriend lovingly describes him as a hophead asshole, it's safe to assume he's trouble.”
“See? It is as I say. Drugs bad. Drugs scourge of business. Don Constantino would do well to kill him.”
Okay-doke. Good talk.
“You're not planning to . . .”
He laughed. “Eddie V. is not my trouble.”
“He might be.”
Stannis came over and kissed my cheek. “I like you to worry.” He pinched an inch between his fingers. “Only little.”
He left with Kontrolyor, Raw Chicken driving them in the Range Rover to meet Black Hawk. That left me with hungover Gorilla, who was as sick as a small hospital. And about as mobile.
The best liver and onions in town were at Au Cheval. But the lazy bastards didn't open until 11:00 a.m., and honestly, who had that kind of time with a seven o'clock hangover?
I coaxed Gorilla out of the house with a promise of as much as he could eat breakfast at Hollywood Grill on North Avenue. He gorged himself on eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, toast, hash browns, coffee, and a milkshake. When we left the restaurant Gorilla looked practically sprightly. Or at least much less green.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“Silverthorn Estates. To see my uncle Edward. Then to my parents' house.”
Gorilla grunted and drove us to the assisted living facility.
“I'm going to be a couple hours at least,” I said. “He wants to watch a movie. Call you when I'm done?”
“Okey.” He drove me to the door, got out, and escorted me to the door.
For once, I didn't feel the slightest guilt at knowing he'd just be waiting around in the car. Nothing like a nap after a big breakfast.
I rode up the elevator, straightening my black suit jacket, smoothing my pants, trying to gear up for a proper ass-chewing.
Anita met me at the doors. “Good morning, Agent McGrane.”
Oof. That hurts.
I stiffened to keep my shoulders from sagging. “You, too.”
She accompanied me to Danny Kaplan's office, opening the door and closing it behind me.
Not good.
Hank's Law Number Thirteen: Anyone can endure expected pain.
Edward and Kaplan were in position at the conference table. Kaplan wore a pantsuit the color of an editor's red pen, but it was Edward's houndstooth sports coat over a polo shirt that was more damning than Anita's door-to-door service.
Bureaucratic trouble is always accompanied by formality.
“Sit.” Danny pointed at the chair with a nail varnished the color of dried blood. “I honestly don't even know where to begin. Edward?”
Edward plucked at a salt-and-pepper brow. “'Twould be only fair to remember this is McGrane's first undercover assignment.”
“Horseshit!” Kaplan said. “Anyone savvy enough to ingratiate herself with Stannislav Renko can figure out how to get out and make a goddamn phone call.”
Oh yeah? Why don't you try it, sister?
She put her elbows on the table, wrists limp. She resembled nothing so much as a praying mantis spray-painted scarlet. “Do you even realize what a clusterfuck this has become?”
“No, ma'am,” I said. “After the shooting, Renko hasn't allowed me anywhere unaccompanied.” I tapped the BOC watch they'd given me. “Lights up at the penthouse.”
“The shooting?” Kaplan's head twitched from side to side like Netflix with a signal lag.
“Renko's driver and I may have been targets at the Circle K two weeks ago Tuesday.”
Edward put his hand on my arm. “Yeh didn't report it, lass.”
“No one was injured and it was impossible to know who the actual target was.”
“I don't recall receiving the memo that Special Unit had become an EEOE, do you, Edward?” Kaplan said. “But apparently we've hired our own idiot savant.”
Aren't you just as compassionate as your average Islamic terrorist?
She ticked off on her fingers. “Unreported shooting. Damaged our relationship with the Feds. Faulty data—”
“My information was solid,” I said, unable to stand it. “One of Renko's men transferred the cars to another intermodal train yard. Renko had no idea until your men inspected the containers.”
Kaplan and Edward exchanged a look. “Is it possible you've been compromised?” she asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “Eddie Veteratti's fallen out of favor with the Don Constantino. And he blames Renko.”
She sat back in her chair. Her red suit was so vibrant I saw her negative reflection in green every time I closed my eyes.
Kaplan raised her index finger. “Just for the record, who the hell gave you permission to go to Tampico, much less Honduras?”
“Ma'am?” I asked.
“How could you not consider this would compromise you as an agent? Or worse, compromise Special Unit, or even the BOC?”
“I was in the continued presence of Renko and his men. I called in as soon as possible. The JLB train travelled via Juárez into Tampico, where the containers were shifted to ship.”
“That route is well-documented and irrelevant,” Kaplan sniped.
Edward gave me a rueful smile. “Once the cars have left US soil, their value is gone.”
Jaysus, why not kick me down the stairs and be done with it?
Edward turned to her. “You must admit, her ability to get so close to Renko is remarkable.”
Kaplan raised her hands in dismissal. “It's up to Sawyer now.”
Feck. I wasn't serious.
 
Anita had waited for me outside of Kaplan's office.
Terrific. I need a minder now.
She walked me out past the Grims and into the assisted living hall. At her insistence, we stopped in the dining room and had a mini-bottle of water before resuming the march of the condemned. Past the dining room, library, and numerous private rooms.
At the end of the hall, she rapped twice on the door, then twice again.
It buzzed open.
It was an office like any other privately held CEO's. Elegant but utilitarian. I could detect the faint strains of Liszt. Walt Sawyer sat beind a banker's desk of Carpathian Elm Burl, looking as suave and debonair as a Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. “Please, have a seat.”
I perched on the edge of a wood-backed upholstered chair. My knee started bouncing. I crossed my legs at the ankles to stop it.
“Last week, two-point-six million dollars' worth of new cars were stolen from the very insurance companies paying Special Unit to take down Stannislav Renko.”
I tried to swallow. The muscles in my throat worked, but nothing happened.
“The largest single theft he's pulled off to date. And one of my own agents accompanied him throughout this process.” Walt pressed his fingertips down on the black leather desk blotter. “You have proven yourself a brave and resourceful operative. But far too inexperienced for this assignment.”
He bowed his flaxen head and said softly, “Patience and caution come with age and experience. I blame myself for allowing this situation to escalate beyond your range as a special agent.”
“Sir, while I agree I have become very close to the subject—”
“Your eagerness and inability to maintain boundaries has caused you to compromise the safety of Special Unit, yourself, and your family with the Grieco Cartel.”
“What? I met only one of Grieco's lieutenants, Alfonso Javier Rodriguez, in the company of Stannislav Renko.”
Walt smiled. “Long enough for El Cid to find you intriguing.”
I cocked my head. “I beg your pardon?”
“It has come across our desk that El Cid has been inquiring after you.”
Wow. Jaysus. That's really not good.
“I apologize, sir. I think—”
“You will proceed, thus.” Walt closed his eyes for a moment. “You will extricate yourself from Stannislav Renko with the barest minimum of strife. Upon satisfactory accounting, you will return to supervising the collection of evidence by your fellow parking enforcement agents.”
So that's how it's going to be, huh?
I'll make sure to hustle ass so as not to let the door hit me on the way out.
Or not.
Hank's Law Number Twenty: The most dangerous enemy is the one with nothing left to lose.
I sighed. “Are you having an affair with my mother?”
Walt Sawyer's whiskey-colored eyes met mine. “No.” The momentary flicker of longing attested to his truth.
For the moment.
“Any thoughts on how to break up with The Butcher?” I held up my left hand.
Walt's lips thinned. He frowned. “A fake engagement?”
“Yes. But Stannis won't part with me easily. He believes I'm his good luck charm.”
Sawyer folded his hands atop his desk. “I have no compunction terminating your employment with Special Unit.”
Hardball. In all its badass glory.
I may be a rookie, but you brought me to the big leagues just the same.
“Stannis knows I'm close to my family.” I shrugged. “I suppose I could come clean with my mother. Maybe ask her to pretend she's terminally ill.”
Walt cupped his chin in his hand, appraising and assessing. “You're exactly like her, you know.”
What a lovely thing to say.
I blushed. “Quite a compliment, coming from the man about to terminate my employment.”
A slow smile curved up the edges of his mouth. “Perhaps you've been mishandled. A thoroughbred needs a steady hand. To be willfully guided. Danny has a tendency to be choppy at the reins. Yes?”
I nodded.
He changed tack. “Which man of Renko's switched trains?”
“
Chyornyj Yastreb.
Russian for Black Hawk. A Russian hand selected by Goran Slajic for Renko's operation. Stannis treats him as an equal.”
“What is he like?”
“I haven't seen him. But he's smart. Cunning. All his conversation is vox modified. He told Stannis he was concerned Eddie Veteratti is out to cause him trouble. Which I think he is. But after Black Hawk switched the trains, he tweaked something I said to give me credit for the heist's success.”
Walt straightened. “Black Hawk's either setting him up or trying to move in. Either way, I think perhaps it's time you work directly for me. You need money, equipment? Talk to Edward. Danny's out of the loop for now.”
“Yessir.”
“Stay close to Stannis. Take no chances. The next move will be ours. And we will manage the situation.”
Chapter 43
I left the clean and bright Silverthorn Estates building, feeling relieved and excited and dark and dirty. And sad.
Gorilla idled in the Explorer across the street at the center island. I trotted across the street, trying to shake the guilt raven off my shoulder.
The hulking bodyguard was out of the Explorer and around the hood before I got to the median. “No!” he said. “You were to wait until I came for you. Not safe.” He opened the rear passenger-side door. He took my elbow, crowding me as I stepped onto the running board.
I heard a sound like a bare hand slapping a wall.
He fell on top of me, crushing the breath from my lungs and knocking me to the floor of the SUV.
He jerked spasmodically as two more shots struck him.
He wasn't moving. I got one arm free and raised his head.
Gorilla was dead.
I squirmed and wriggled my legs out from under him. A round hit the bulletproof window on the open door and went right through it into the headrest. The Lexan was no match for the high-caliber sniper round. Another came right through the open door into the backseat.
Pinned down.
I couldn't close the rear passenger door. Gorilla was half-in, half-out of the car. I braced my feet, grabbed his suit by the shoulders, and heaved. A bullet tore a hole through the floor inches from my foot.
Holy cat!
Terror pumped strength through me I never knew I had. I adjusted my grip on Gorilla and hurled myself backward, dragging his body into the car. Blood burbled out his mouth, onto my jacket and pants. Crouching, I started forward to pull the door shut.
Bad idea.
I threw myself against the driver's seat.
Hank's Law Number Four: Keep your head.
Duh. There's more than one door in an SUV.
I slipped out the side door, opened the driver's door, and scooted behind the wheel. The key was in the ignition. I turned it, grinding the starter, popped the car in Drive, and stomped on the gas.
Two more shots hit the car as I tore down the street. The interior alarm bells bleeped and pinged like crazy from my lack of seat belt and the still open door. Tires screaming, I took a sharp right at 40 mph, and let gravity close the door for me.
I took a hard left and pumped the gas. Weaving in and out of traffic, head on a swivel, I juiced the gas, my breath coming in short pants.
Hank's Law Number Three: Don't let your lizard brain go rogue.
Gotta calm down. Stay fluid.
I sucked in a deep breath through my nose.
Huge mistake.
My stomach roiled.
Gorilla was dead. The stink of his bodily fluids mingled with blood . . . the stench so heavy it coated the back of my tongue and throat, like gagging up an old penny.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Call the BOC? My brothers?
I passed a car on the wrong side and adjusted my grip on the wheel.
The blurp of a siren sounded.
The blue and red lights of the CPD flashed in my rearview mirror. They rolled the siren again.
There's a dead guy in my car.
I pulled over.
Shite! Shite! Shite!
The cop driving lumbered out and cracked his neck before starting toward the Explorer.
No way a cop wouldn't recognize the stink.
Cripes.
I scrambled out of the Explorer and took a step toward the officer. At least the blood didn't show on my black suit.
The cop's partner got on the loudspeaker. “Get back in the car, ma'am.”
I raised my hands, closed my eyes, and stopped walking.
“Ma-am, please . . .” His voice died away. “Your hair is red?”
Brilliant observation, officer.
I opened my eyes and almost closed them again.
Tommy Narkinney.
My arch-rival from the Police Academy and all-around rat bastard who almost got me killed, looking more 'roided-up than ever. “Officer Narkinney.” I said.
“Maisie-Daisy McGrane.” He waved at his partner to stay in the car and came closer. “You were speeding.”
“Yes.”
“I'm not going to give you a ticket, but that's it. No more free passes.”
Whatever thread of sanity I'd been clinging to snapped inside my brain. I stepped into him, chest-to-chest. “Are you feckin' kidding me?”
“Maisie—” He blanched and rocked back on his heels. “Geez. Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
I didn't recognize the voice that came out of me. “The fact that I didn't let Hank kill you makes you my forever-always bitch.”
His cheeks quivered.
What in God's name am I doing?
I stepped back. “You better go. Shots fired at Silverthorn Estates.” I pointed in the general vicinity.
His face crinkled in confusion.
His partner clicked the loudspeaker twice and hit the lights. Tommy turned to see him furiously waving him to come back to the car.
Tommy looked at me.
“Go,” I said.
He jogged back to the car, got in, and took off, siren blaring.
I got back in the Explorer. The smell was overwhelming. I reached back and pulled my purse out from under Gorilla's shoulder. I undid the bloody zipper, got my phone out, and called Hank.
“Mr. Bannon's office,” his secretary said, somehow able to make it sound risqué. “Good afternoon, Ms. McGrane. I'm afraid Mr. Bannon's in conference—would you like to leave a message?”
I hung up without speaking. “Siri,” I said. “Text Walt.
Okay. Will call
.”
I dialed Stannis. No answer. I called the penthouse. Kontrolyor answered the phone. “Da?”
“This is Maisie. We have a problem.”
“With car?”
Bingo!
“Yes.” A giant sigh of relief burst from me. I knew exactly what to do. “Get a message to Stannis. Tell him to meet me at Christo Keck's Garage.”
“Da.”
“And Kon? Tell Christo I'm coming in hot.”
“Hot?” he said in confusion. “I do not understand.”
“The car's on fire.” I hung up.
The drive was beyond excruciating. I wouldn't let myself even contemplate the corrosive deluge of hydrofluoric acid that would storm down on my family if I got in an accident or, God forbid, got stopped again.
On the plus side, I now knew intimately the nervy adrenaline rush that a killer feels carting a body around.
Finally, I hit Albany Park.
Taking it extra slow, I hit my turn signal well in advance of Keck's alleyway. I pulled in to the narrow passageway, mouth-breathing in short pants.
A man in coveralls unlocked and rolled back the covered chain-link entrance to the rear parking lot. I drove in and he shut and locked the gate behind me.
I got out of the car.
Three men in coveralls glared at me. Keck approached the Explorer, noting the enormous bullet holes in the car. He looked through the broken window and saw Gorilla sprawled between the seats.
In two quick steps he was on me, hand knotted in my hair. He jerked my head back. “Why the fuck do you bring this mess here? To me?” Still holding on to me, he turned to the men. “Wrap him in a tarp. Chop the car.”
The men sprang into action, as Keck forced me into the chop shop. He let go with a slight shove toward the counter. He went over to the vending machine, dug out some change, and brought back a Dr Pepper and a Hershey bar.
“No, thanks.”
“I may not have a choice over you bringing a fucking dead body into my garage, but you will do as I say until Renko gets here. Eat it.”
The soda tasted bitter. The candy bar equally so. I forced them down, eyeing my watch. Within twenty minutes, Christo Keck buzzed Stannis and Kontrolyor into the garage.
Stannis took one look at me and laid his fist over his heart. He rattled off a stream of very pissed-off Serbian at Keck, then, in Russian, snapped an order at Kon, who exited the garage into the rear lot, presumably to check on Gorilla and the Explorer.
Stannis strode up to the counter. He laid a hand on my head and stroked my hair.
“Big holes.” Keck tossed a chunk of metal onto the counter. “Went through Ivanović's vest like butter.”
“Leave now.”
As Keck grabbed his keys and hustled out of the building, Stannis picked up the spent round and examined it. “.308. A pro.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then took out his phone, laid it on the counter, and called
Chyornyj Yastreb.
“Go ahead.”
“New assignment,” Stannis said. “Hunting.”
“Who?”
“Sniper.”
“Importance?” Black Hawk said.
“Critical. Ivanović is collateral damage.”
“Any trail?”
“.308 rounds.” Stannis set the bullet on the counter. “A pro. Of middling skill.”
“You know this how?”
“A hired sniper misses target two occasions,” Stannis said. “Should not be difficult to find.”
“You?”
“No.” Stannislav's hands curled into fists. “
Anđeo
.”
Talk about luck o' the Irish. I'm alive because of the ineptitude of a second-tier hitter.
A high-pitched whine of feedback from Black Hawk's vox creased the air. “Why her?”
“She belongs to me,” Stannis said simply.
“Who guards her now?”
“Kontrolyor.”
“Is better than Ivanović,” Black Hawk said.
“You say because he is Russian.”
“No. I say that because he is better.” The robotic voice didn't make him sound any sweeter. “Regular rate?”
“Double.”
“Done,” Black Hawk agreed. “I call you when the job is done.”
“No,” Stannis said. “Find. Call.” He looked at me. “We discuss.”

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